


Blindfolded

by tanchouz



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8557165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanchouz/pseuds/tanchouz
Summary: Jesse likes to take Mike's gun apart and back





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [What_we_are](https://archiveofourown.org/users/What_we_are/gifts).



> I would like to thank wonderful writer What_we_are for her kind support and patience while editing this fic.

“Give me the gun.”

Mike glanced at Jesse and realized this was it again. He turned away and continued talking to Dennis, hoping that was a case when the problem could be solved by its total ignoring.

Jesse was so mad that only the greatest misanthrope in the world would have given him a gun, but even he should think well before that, if he wanted to stay alive.

The conversation with Dennis suddenly seemed to Mike as important as breaking news from Ciudad Juarez. 

That day Dennis was in charge of the business. The man was responsible for making the site look as innocent as a monstrous and environmentally harmful industrial laundry could look. And no one should suspect that something else mixes with thick and stinky smoke going from huge pipes. Something like toxic fumes, the result of mysterious chemical reactions occurring in the depth of the laundry. 

Dennis Markowski was one of the best guys, smart and quick in the uptake. Mike ranked his abilities very high and hoped that it was clear enough for Jesse as well. That should stop him from interrupting the talk, though it was only about the new rules regulating entry to the off-site territory.

But it didn’t work. It never worked with Jesse. Jesse tried to grab Mike’s shoulder and get between him and Dennis, but Mike was quick enough to step back.

“Easy, you,” Dennis warned Jesse in a deceptively mild voice. 

“Give me the gun. Anything.”

Jesse was biting his lips impatiently looking like a man, whose deadly enemy was wandering about, moving away from shooting distance with every second. 

Jesse had enough time to adopt ways and methods of Mike’s guys, but he wasn’t recognized among them as a member of the gang. His claims for the equal status were regarded by the most of Mike’s men with contempt and irritation that they didn’t even bother to hide. 

Dennis pushed Jesse away. His movement was slight, which was even more humiliating, as if Jesse was not worth any serious effort. 

If Jesse wanted to take it out on someone, then he could do it. Dennis didn’t expect the attack.

“What the fuck?” 

Mike hated it. Having it out with rival gangsters was a part of the job. Internal conflicts made him sick. He took it personally because it was hard to create a strong and supportive team with every member knowing his place and duties, and a fight like that meant a serious system failure. 

His elbow made Jesse gasp and step back.

It was Jesse who started the fight and Mike wouldn’t let it go. But he suddenly noticed Walter White over the Dennis’s shoulder. The chemist seemed to appear around the corner of the building. It was where they parked the cars. And it was where Jesse has come out, mad as hell and well determined to get the gun.

Walter looked at them from the corner of his eyes like he really feared that Mike or Dennis could listen to Jesse and give him a weapon and the kid would use it on him.

Mike began to understand the situation a bit better.

He shook his head stopping Dennis, then took out his old Smith-and-Wesson, ejected the clip and handed the gun to Jesse.

“Here.”

He thought that Dennis deserved promotion. The guy’s face remained still, though he should be surprised. He only glanced darkly at Jesse making a memory to check in the future.

Jesse stared at Smith-and-Wesson incredulously. Then suddenly snatched it out, turned away and headed for the building’s entry. While walking, Jesse pushed several carts with dirty linen aside and it seemed like he was about to do it with Walter, if the man would stand in his way. Walter backed off, but Jesse bumped into him with his shoulder. It was clear as day that he did it by intent, drawing the line under the hard talk that took place a few minutes ago.

Dennis gave Mike a questioning look and understood that the talking was over for today. Mike nodded to him and slowly followed Jesse, hands in his pockets, fingers touching slightly bullets in the cartridge clip. When Mike came opposite to Walter he stopped and looked at him.

“What?” the chemist asked grimly.

It wasn’t like Walter White at all. He had become guilty enough to deserve a long prison sentence, but the way he talked was the same as before. He was calm, polite and reasonable, as an intelligent teacher should be, though wasted with weight of decorum and the need to be a role-model for a dozen of young blockheads in the chemistry class. Sometimes good manners failed Walter and he lost control, but he never regretted this. Mike noticed that long ago. 

It looked like Walter was on edge, but he couldn’t see Mike’s hands. It made him feel uneasy and he couldn’t find the nerve to tell Mike to get lost. 

“What’s the matter?” the chemist asked again.

“Nothing.”

Mike thrusted his hands deeper into pockets.

“Just wanted to thank you for doing my job.”

Mike watched Jesse entering the laundry. Walter followed his gaze and frowned. He stirred but Mike stepped in front of him and Dennis immediately stopped in the far part of the parking lot in a few yards away from his car. 

“Why?” Mike asked, indicating Dennis by a gesture that he can get into the car and go away.

“He’s got nothing to do there. The batch is done; the lab is closed.”

“This is not the lab.”

“No?”

“So you don’t know.” Mike chuckled.

“About what?”

“Where else he could go here besides the lab.”

A roar came from the parking lot. Dennis started the engine and both men involuntary turned their heads in his direction, watching the old Dodge leaving the territory. Old and plain car like most of Mike’s guys had.

“Walter,” Mike said, squinting at the Dodge. “Why does the kid ask a gun after talking to you?”

Walter jerked his head.

“Listen, we deliver the product in time, right?”

Mike nodded easily with that look on his face saying “whatever you say, I know better”.

“This is the first thing.” Walter began to tick points off on his fingers.

“The analysis of the product’s purity is on Gus’ table every day. This is me who is in charge of quality. We have a stable sales growth and your bank account is regularly filled. Check me if I am wrong on this point, but this,”

Walter lifted his hand with an open palm, every finger on which indicated one of five reasons mentioned by him.

“This is what you should think about in the first place, right? Even when you, I tell it again – not me, but you and Gus - decide that Jesse should miss his shift in the lab to participate in this drops-off and stakes-out business, the cooking doesn’t stop. Don’t you think that among all these things my helper’s mood changes are called “minor” by reasonable people? There is no reason to bother when emotionally unstable methhead suddenly decides that he is the only person in the world. It doesn’t matter really, I know”.

Mike thought that Jesse has spoiled his partner. Fucking with the kid’s brain on a daily basis made Walter think of himself as of ace at persuading. If Mike would have respected Walter a bit more, he might felt offended. 

“I know, you’re sure that me and Gus would have given our eye-teeth to set you both on each other. But Walter, it’s like adopting an orphan. I don’t have to bust my ass, you know. It’s you who delivers the kid in my hands. All I need is just go there and pat his head, and you will sing your lonely song in the lab again. And not because I’ll drag him into my car by force, no, it will be his choice. He is not as reasonable as you and I, is he? He might not think that his problems are something “minor.”

Mike’s deadly weapon, that’s what it was. Plain-dealing, not forty-five Smith-and-Wesson revolver as everybody thought.

“So what problems do you have with me then? Since I do your job?” Walter asked in a dry tone. 

If it was not for hardly restrained irritation, the chemist voice would be sarcastic and Mike got angry after all.

“You do not do my job. You two just bug me with your drama. Walter, it was you who brought him here. Nobody wanted him in the business but you. You are in charge of him. It is not me who should care for the kid not to fly off the handle since he’s such a fucking delicate soul. And you can not even say why he asks me for a gun and where he goes with it.” 

Mike stopped.

Watching the opponent losing his temper always made Walter happy. He received what he wanted and Mike had to admit that he has lost this little battle.

“He takes your gun to pieces and assembles it back.”

That was not the question, but statement, and Walter was sure that he guessed right.

“I would give him Scooby-Doo puzzles, just have no time to buy it.” Mike snapped back.

He got a grip on himself and added more calmly, “I don’t mind this weapon therapy. Just worry sometimes that he might put a bullet into it.” 

Walter looked away, and Mike thought that he almost smiled. 

“He won’t do it,” the chemist said.

“You sure?” Mike cocked his head on him.

“He is indebted to me for everything,” Walter replied confidently.

“And you don’t let him forget it, do you?”

“He wouldn’t have even lived to his twenty-six without me.”

“He’s twenty-five,” Mike pointed out.

“And he owes me at least one year in this twenty-six,” Walter continued as though not having heard Mike’s remark. “A year of life he couldn’t ever dream of when he was hanging around in the backyards selling meth to whores.”

“He’s a drug user.” Mike responded quietly. “A methhead that you dragged into drug-trafficking up to his balls. He sees meth everyday – cooks it, breaks it, packs it. Think you’ve done him a favor? Jesus, it’s like to hire a boozer to barman’s job.”

“You miss something.” Walter frowned. Mike’s words stroke a chord in him, though he tried not to show that.

“You forgot who has dragged this methhead out of crack house and delivered into rehab.”

“If this rehab thing worked we would have lost our jobs long time ago. Walter, I have too good opinion of you to believe that you don’t know it. Do you really think your partner treats all these punks in his house to beer?”

Walter wanted to say something, but Mike shook his head.

“And don’t tell me about the money. The kid has no idea what he needs your money for. Even his X-box games are locked safer than his money bags. Do you know that he spends it to some Mexican chick, that he hardly knows and doesn’t even fuck anymore? Throws it around in the house. All these “fat stacks” only give him troubles. And me too.”

Walter responded, “When I was twenty-five I raised much less money than him. Much less. But I always solved my problems by myself.”

“Oh yeah, you are a real man, Walter.” Mike nodded. “No drama, black hat, a gun in the holster. But you know, if I were you, I would become tense. Just a bit. You suck as cowboy yet, though...”

Walter interrupted him.

“If he wanted to shoot me, he would have done that already. Do you think he never tried?”

Walter smiled. It was a wry smile but with a bit of arrogance in it. He probably thought that not dying from his partners’ bullet grants the right to look down on him for the lack of nerve.

“Are you serious?” Mike sneered back. “I didn’t know you are a thrill-seeker, Walter.”

“That’s not going to happen. You will not buy him over. For the God’s sake, why am I listening to you?”

“Maybe because he’s emotionally unstable methhead, and there are special sales in arms shops this week?”

“Bullshit.”

Mike just said again: 

“Are you sure?”

In spite of all his self-confidence Walter was hesitating. He had no idea where Jesse has gone to and didn’t want to make a fool of himself. Asking Mike to show him the way would cancel all what he has just said. 

Mike could read his hesitation very well. He didn’t care whether Walter was motivated by a sort of remorse or it was only cold math. It was not his intention to help him.

“Call him,” Mike advised and put his hands out of pockets at last. “Talk to him, explain everything as you usually do. Don’t waste your time, Walter. When you are on thin ice, it’s better to know that someone can lend you a helping hand.”

Mike gave Walter a meaningful look, waved with cartridge clip and headed for the laundry.

He knew that Walter waited for him to go far enough not to hear his talking to Jesse. But he didn’t care. The place where Mike was going to had too thick walls for mobile communication. 

Walter didn’t need to know about that.

 

 

***

Jesse raised the gun in front of his eyes. He took it to pieces carefully, set the сcomponents out the table in strictly defined order as if performing some priestly ceremony and started to clean the barrel. 

Soot and fouling. Mike used the gun. Scouring and oiling, field strip would be enough.

Jesse was cold. The room was at the same level with meth lab, but on the other side of the basement. Mike called it his “office” and used for his daily routine business. Once Mike gave Jesse a key to bring there a bag and never asked it back. The room was very plainly furnished, just an old table with a reading lamp, a pair of chairs and an iron cot. There was also a vault on a kind of iron support, and Jesse knew that Mike kept money collected from pick-ups and some of his guns in it. 

Jesse never saw anyone besides Mike in that room. It was cold and uncomfortable but he felt safe there and Mike didn’t mind his visits, so Jesse preferred it to his empty house or carting tracks where he used to be the only driver in the whole club.

Jesse rubbed his forehead and regretted this immediately. A gray mark across his forehead was the last thing he needed. Jesse took an old rag all in rusty stains and began to wipe the parts one after another, putting each piece back exactly where he took it from the table.

Mike used his gun. He had enough guys to take over all dirty work. Soot in the barrel meant that Mike charged himself with the problem and was alone. No point in asking why. Mike never answered such questions; he just glanced back darkly. If Jesse kept asking, Mike smacked him slightly upside the head. Not to hurt really, but to hint that it’s better to shut up.

Jesse took a bottle with lubricating oil, pressed a rag to the bottleneck and watched the rag getting soaked. Then he took the pistol receiver and started to oil the bore. 

Mike often does it. No words, just a glance or a touch meaning silent order. Mike puts his hand on Jesse's shoulder, brings him to the stash, hands over a shovel and invites to dig by patting the back of his head. Mike doesn’t shout but throws his elbow to stop Jesse, making him gasp and his chest ache. He distractedly makes Jesse move at the back seat when Tyrus drives and there are too many people in the car so they are forced to sit very close to each other. Mike takes Jesse’s wrist and closes around his fingers tightly if Jesse tries to pull his hand away. Mike checks his veins and Jesse waits resignedly until Mike makes sure that there aren’t any marks telling that Jesse has gone back to his old habits, more serious than occasional meth smoking. 

Jesse put a receiver aside and took a hummer spring. 

He has seen so much for the time passed, but never Mike killing someone. 

Jesse saw death, he watched people dying. Of old age and decease. Of a drug overdose. By stupidity or bad luck, catching a bullet or being too late in shooting. God, he has even seen a man dying from lung cancer committing a murder.

His hand jerked, the spring went off, rolled across the table and fell to the floor. Jesse cursed under his breath, bent over and started to grope for the detail under the table. Fucking piece of iron. There was a moment of panic, but it was gone as soon as Jesse’s fingers felt for the resilient steel. Jesse straightened up, inspected the spring and slowly wiped it with a rag.

It wasn’t like he feared that his life would be endangered for a lost detail and a broken gun. But he would have never admitted even to himself that he would rather put his hand into anthill than let too familiar a look come over Mike’s face. That Irritation and disappointment that most people demonstrated looking at Jesse since he’d turned twelve. Exactly what Mr. White’s face revealed just a half an hour ago.

Mike had two Smith-and-Wesson guns. The first model, old but fail-safe, laid now stripped on the table. The second one has been adopted for SWAT teams. Jesse was not allowed to touch it. It didn’t need regular scouring, the bullets going through its barrel left just a little dust behind them, faint reminiscence of the idea that life is just a dream аnd the best way to wake up is a pop and a brief flash.

All details were well oiled and wiped and were anticipating the moment when they would become one infallible device designed to wake up mortals from their dreams. When somebody dies it is not the end of the story; oh no. Jesse knew too well how the survivors turn the death to their advantage.

Jesse closed his eyes and immediately a surprised face appeared before him. A red spot under an eye, a head thrown back, a brief vision of half-opened mouth. Even having been shot Gale Boetticher looked like someone absolutely sure that a bullet in the head was a pure misunderstanding that could be easily cleared up. 

“This is the first day of the rest in your life, Jesse”.

The price that Jesse paid for every mistake made was so high that it was easy to imagine him being reborn as a heartless killer or a cruel tyrant in a long consequence of previous lives and compensating now for all his sins.

Jesse was looking at the gun’s details in the glare of reading lamp and almost envied them. He wished someone could take him and put with the same ease at the place where he would be the part of something really important. A welcomed part that should be taken care of and asked from time to time how it was dong. A part that would be cleaned carefully if dust and soot caused troubles in functioning. There was no chance to make it mad or make it feel like a nobody or a bad person. 

It was hard to go back to assembling the gun, though the process was quite familiar. Nothing would be left to busy Jesse’s hands with until morning when time would come to go back to the lab. Jesse would have asked Mike to let him sleep the night right here in the “office”, but he didn’t think that Mike would understand why Jesse decided to change his bedroom for an uncomfortable cot in the dark den. And it was good. If Mike would have guessed why, Jesse would look too pathetic. 

Jesse looked at his hands, fingers smeared with oil. Time to finish it. He straightened up and at that very second heard steps behind the door. 

The door opened and Mike entered the room. He watched Jesse staring at the stripped gun, came closer, took an exposed pistol receiver and inspected it carefully. Jesse took a quick sideways glance at Mike’s face. He liked that look. The corner of the mouth lifted, eyes squinting with approval. 

Their eyes met. Mike frowned, and Jesse’s heart sank. But before he started to panic, a thumb ran across his forehead. Jesse opened his mouth in surprise and remembered the soot mark left on his face.

“Mudded all over as always”, Mike said putting the receiver back on the table. “What is it? Lost the track?”

“No”, Jesse murmured.

He just needed a break. A good and a long one. He didn’t sleep much recently and had a full meal only with Mike between their rides in the desert or late at night. They usually had it in a roadside cafe or snack bar. They became regular customers in some of them. Mike didn’t talk much making an order. A single sharp nod, and a girl was hurrying to their table with full coffee pot and two plates with today’s specials.

“What’s the deal in the lab? Somebody’s getting fresh?” Mike asked.

Jesse gazed up.

“It’s between him and me,” he answered after a pause.

Mike said nothing, he just kept looking at Jesse. Jesse suddenly had an odd feeling. It seemed to him for a second that Mike might pat him on the head. His temples ached, eyes were closing with fatigue, he still felt the warm touch on his forehead. 

Maybe he should see it at last. The way Mike takes out the gun and a does a mad modern painting in blood and brains on the wall. It would teach Jesse to shudder when Mike touches his forehead and kill the desire to make the touch last a bit longer. “Whatever”, Mike went to the money vault and put his phone on it. It was the only place in the “office” where mobile service was available. 

“Well?” he asked, dialing the code.

There was no answer and Mike looked over his shoulder. 

Jesse sat still, hands loose at his sides. It looked like he completely lost interest in what he was doing. 

Mike shut the door of the vault.

“Think you can handle that?”

Jesse shrugged with indifference.

“Jesse, I love my gun. And I love it whole, not in parts.”

“Yeah,” Jesse closed his eyes for a second. “Yeah, just give me a moment.”

“What is it?”

“Nothin’.”

“Do they hurt?”

“What?”

“Your eyes. Do they hurt?”

Mike came up close to Jesse and stood behind him.

“Oh… Yeah, that’s it, right. They hurt. I’m tired to the bone.” 

It was a good excuse. Jesse was going to rub his eyes to confirm it, forgetting about the soot and oil on his fingers. 

But he was late. 

Jesse started and froze when two broad hands lay on his face covering his eyes from reading-lamp light. 

A fly buzzed softly in the sudden silence, an invisible ghost that crawled from the lab. 

Mike’s hands were firm and warm.

“I was in the Navy. You know about that?” Mike’s voice came from above. It was very calm, implying that it was not a big deal to cover the kid’s eyes in the laundry’s basement and to tell him stories. 

Jesse shook his head warily. It was only when he realized how strongly the artificial light troubled his tired eyes. Jesse risked a glance. The light filtering through Mike’s fingers made his skin look rosy at the edges. It was so strange to see that Jesse shut his eyes quickly. 

“I was a Marine. The sergeant loved to grill us on field stripping our weapons. We were sitting blindfolded and when the signal came we started to take our M16’s apart and back. The last to finish had write letters to the sergeant’s wife.” 

Jesse hoped it would be a long story. Long enough for him to get used to the sensation of warm hands shielding his face against disturbing light and the whole world.

“You never did that,” Jesse murmured.

“Correct.”

Mike's hands pulled slightly making Jesse’s back of the head rest on Mike’s jacket. 

“But there was one guy, Murphy. Once he was unlucky, so it was his turn to make the lady happy. He asked for lady’s photo. Needed some inspiration.”

“And?” Jesse asked though the rest of the story was clear. 

“And then any first year could beat him at weapon stripping. The sergeant didn’t mind.”

“What an idiot.”

“He didn’t read them. His wife’s letters or Murphy’s letters, he didn’t care. He fucked a girl from medical unit, so he didn’t even open them. The guys from post service began to bring them straight to Murphy, just to save their time. The boys stole them of course. There was nothing interesting; I heard them reading some letters aloud in the barracks. But Murphy was mad as hell.”

 

“What happened to him?”

“He was transferred. Very far, to Uganda or Cameroon.”

“For fighting?”

“No. He sent a letter to the sergeant’s wife saying he’d come and marry her. She called.”

They became silent again. 

“I wanna try,” Jesse said at last. 

“You sure?”

Jesse nodded slowly, not to let Mike’s hands slip off his face.

“I don’t have a wife. Give you Tyrus’ address.” 

Jesse couldn’t see Mike’s face but he could tell for sure that Mike was squinting again. Sometimes it could go for a smile. 

Jesse grinned. 

“I won’t need it.”

“Just keep your eyes closed.”

Mike took his hands away. The light immediately tried to penetrate under the shut eyelids. Jesse heard Mike opening and shutting the vault. 

“Sometimes I have to keep people in the dark about the places I must deliver them to.”

And before Jesse understood the meaning of these words the darkness spread before his eyes. He was blindfolded. 

He froze. Sounds around him suddenly became disturbingly loud. Jesse heard distinctly the washing machines’ monotonous drone, the rhythmical throb, he heard Mike’s calm breathing above his head, and at the background of all this a ghostly buzz was heard, telling over and over again about the second Smith-and-Wesson gun that didn’t need regular scouring and was right there in the vault ready to use. 

“Not you,” Mike said patiently, putting his hands on Jesse’s shoulders. 

Not today. 

Jesse had the flashback of his house. The cluttered first-floor room, Tyrus standing with his arms crossed, contempt and boredom on his face, the bag with money and a blindfolded man professionally bound with ropes, whining and groaning at Tyrus’ feet.

Mike’s hands reached over to give Jesse’s shoulders comforting pat. Jesse wished desperately Mike wouldn’t have been like that. He couldn’t resist that feeling of trust that Mike inspired in him though his instincts screamed that it was very unwise to trust a man with a vault full of guns and blindfolds.

Mike’s fingers squeezed Jesse’s shoulders slightly, promising that the blindfold was just to continue that military story, not the nightmare when Mike and Tyrus paid Jesse a visit and brought a blindfolded thief as a warning. 

Jesse took a deep breath and tried to imagine himself a Marine, awaiting a signal in the darkness. It was just to withdraw Jesse’s mind from the gloomy reflections. He should be thankful.

Uncertainly he touched the blindfold. Mike patted the back of his head and moved away.

Jesse suddenly felt as the only one being left on a desert island. 

He could only touch and hear. He never imagined how discouraging a sudden loss of sight could be. His own hands seemed huge and clumsy. He felt like the table before him had shrunk to the size of a toy like a door to the Wonderland before Alice, that girl that had a dangerous habit to drink from every bottle with tempting inscriptions. Jesse held out his hand and one of the parts immediately responded with merry clink to his touch and clattered to the floor.

Jesse cringed and froze, not daring to move. He was absolutely sure that it would start to rain with metal if he even stirred. The world was strange as if Jesse suddenly found himself in the moon having no idea about the ways things were going there. He felt an urge to pull the blindfold off and to make sure that the world remained as it was, shitty and hostile but at least familiar. He pulled the soft cloth and heard the steps behind him. Mike came to Jesse, bent over him, took his wrist and led to the gun’s part on the table. Jesse’s fingers touched cold metal and he remembered. The world hasn’t changed, everything remained the same. Metal was cold, Mike’s hands were warm. Jesse nodded and Mike released his hand. He didn’t step back and stood behind Jesse’s chair. Jesse held the pistol receiver with left hand and cautiously fingered the gun’s pieces with the right one and couldn’t find what he needed. He realized that the part was somewhere under the table. It made him feel uneasy again.

“You are just like that Murphy guy. You and him might have gotten along if you had been born a bit earlier.”

Mike’s hand held Jesse at his place.

“Stay quiet, I’ll get it.”

It worked pretty well. Jesse managed to put the spring on the barrel at the first try. And he wasn’t surprised to feel Mike’s fingers running through his hair. He deserved some approval, so it felt good. He was not like that Murphy at all, he was making it out all right.

But then it got worse. Jesse saw nothing, so it was pretty hard to get the hammer’s end into the boltway. It was hard to control himself and not to hiss through clenched teeth when he failed at another try. But it became really hard to keep calm when he heard a squeak and the chair being drawn behind and found himself caught between table and Mike’s body with his arms around him. 

The cold room suddenly was hot and close. It turned out that Mike didn’t have his jacket on him anymore. He was wearing a short sleeved shirt and smelled like dust of the desert and something else bitter and sweet at the same time. 

Mike didn’t pay attention at the half stupor into which Jesse has fallen. He put his fingers on Jesse’s hands and carefully, very slowly made the gun’s parts in his hands join. 

“It’s all right,” Mike said quietly at Jesse’s ear. Jesse felt prickly stubble scratching slightly his cheek. 

“We’re almost there. Can you finish that?”

They were almost done. All they had to do was to pull the bolt to its full stop, make sure that its lugs clicked into place and to let the bolt go downwards. If all was done right the hummer spring would return the bolt into the right position. Jesse knew it, but he could not summon the strength to move. The world had turned upside down again. The operations were familiar but the point of them had changed. Jesse’s heart pounded, as if they were assembling a time-bomb instead of a gun.

“Want me to help?”

Jesse swallowed and nodded, holding his breath.

Mike covered Jesse’s fingers with his hands again but instead of tugging the bolt, suddenly ran his thumb over Jesse’s back of the hand. He did it a bit more slowly and softer that it was needed to wipe away soot marks. The scorpion on Jesse’s hand stretched out his tattooed claws and froze under that caress. And before he came to his senses Mike squeezed Jesse’s fingers, pulled the bolt, lifted it a bit, pushed and made go down. There was a click. The assembly was done. But neither of them moved as if it didn’t matter. Jesse was holding a gun, and Mike was holding his hands. Mike petted the scorpion again. Jesse's fingers weakened and he couldn’t hold the gun anymore. 

“Used to wear a stud in your ear, eh?”

Mike’s lips were so close that Jesse almost felt them on his ear with old piercing marks. 

The blindfold pressed against Jesse's eyes preventing them from opening. Jesse was dizzy as if he found himself teetering at the edge of a precipice without any safety equipment. 

He was being scoped. 

Mike’s hand examined Jesse's chest and stopped at the left. Jesse felt like his heart was beating in that hand through his T-shirt. The first pebble fell from under his feet into precipice. 

“It’s all fine, kid.”

Mike took Jesse’s wrists, turned them over and caressed them with his thumbs, this time quite openly. A shudder passed over Jesse and he opened his palms. Mike led Jesse’s hands to the edge of the table and made him grip at it. 

Jesse turned his head and having lost control over his breath awkwardly pressed his trembling lips against prickly stubble. He felt Mike’s hand beneath his ear, making him turn his head a little bit more. It wasn’t a romantic kiss at all, but Jesse’s knuckles became white while he was gripping at the table, with his eyes tightly shut under blindfold.

“Stay still and hold on,” Mike warned him in a whisper, put his hand down, made Jesse’s knees go apart and started to unfasten the belt-buckle. 

The table once was a part of laundry’s equipment. It had served its turn but looked solid enough and was moved to the Mike’s “office”. Jesse couldn’t see it but he was sure that his fingers would leave dents on its surface. Ever since Jesse started to raise money he always bought button fly jeans. With every unfastened button, he hated the blindfold more and more. He wanted to watch Mike’s hand unfastening his jeans because it seemed so right to everyone in the room. Jesse regretted so much that he couldn’t see that. He bent his head, but even if the blindfold would have dropped from his eyes it would be too late. Mike was done with buttons. He pulled Jesse’s T-shirt up and jeans down, and Jesse had no time to regret anymore. He realized why Mike told him to hold on.

Since Mike had turned out the bunch of punks of Jesse’s house, there were no more non-stop parties. And no more nameless people in Jesse’s bed. It didn’t matter. He lost interest very soon. Jesse avoided Andrea’s place and stifled the feeling of remorse with fat stacks of money that he was sending her through Saul Goodman. Sometimes there were some special videos on adults’ channels, but the problem was that Jesse could predict the action down to the minute, so he didn’t care when his cable TV subscription got suspended because he forgot to refill his account. He played Racing on X-box with his last occasional girlfriend and woke up alone, fully dressed, lying across the bed face down with his arms widely spread like a man that has fallen down the skyscraper and lay smashed on the pavement. Sex seemed a wearing occupation to him. It was much easier to take the matter into his own hands, literally, and guarantee himself a few seconds of pleasure followed by delightful lassitude. No idle talk and broken promises, no one would get hurt. Jesse listened to Badger and Pete discussing hot girls from glossy papers and drooling over big tits and perky butts, and remained indifferent. He sometimes felt like the only one adult at the kindergarten party. Life became monotonous and dull like a kind of a permanent coma and Jesse was destined to recover from it in a cold subterrestrial room where he was left alone with Mike once again realizing that deep down inside his soul he was waiting for this for a long time.

Carefully and steadily Mike had been training him in his own way, involving not only in criminal business but also in a silent partnership with body language as an ordinary way of communication. It was rather like taming a wild animal. Waiting till it gets accustomed to be around and to be touched and then starts to eat from your hands and fawn on you, demanding attention and caress. What was happening now flowed organically from what they did before and that was why it seemed so right to Jesse, and that was why Mike wasn’t worried at all and holding Jesse steady while the kid was moaning and breathing heavily with every touch, making no attempt to get free or take off the blindfold. 

Mike was caressing Jesse with his right hand, his left hand was under the kid’s T-shirt. He pulled back a little from time to time, examining Jesse’s face and reactions and Jesse felt oddly weak in his legs and knees at the thought that Mike was looking at his blushing face, at his mouth opened. He was gasping for breath and shuddering uncontrollably. He wanted to turn away but didn’t dare. He knew that Mike liked it. Sometimes he made Jesse turn his head and sipped his hot breath from his mouth and let him go only when Jesse really had no more air to breathe. Chairs in this room had no backs and Jesse could feel some parts of Mike’s body very close. That feeling told him that Mike was not acting merely for charity. He was into it with Jesse and the kid regretted so much that he didn’t have time to wipe his hand and now he won’t be allowed to turn around and know what Mike preferred better, zippers or buttons, on his pants. This thought made him grip at the edge of the table and moan with disappointment. Mike’s hold tightened around Jesse and the kid leaned closer to the table under the weight of the big body. Mike’s hand slipped from under Jesse’s T-shirt, ran blindly over his face, touched his lips, went down to the throat and got back. Jesse was trying to press his face over this hand and to catch fingers with his lips and when he succeeded Mike cursed loudly and Jesse felt the edge of the table digging into his stomach. Jesse hastily took two fingers into his mouth, licked them and started to suck. He moved to meet Mike’s hand between his legs.

The hand moved faster and faster, it had already gathered that obscene speed, well known to every man, promising bliss and pleasure in no more than a few seconds, Jesse felt Mike’s hot breath at his ear, heard his whisper and lost control before he got the words. 

It was like a static charge. 

Jesse threw his hand behind him, put it around a strong neck, pressed with his back into Mike’s body and with his cheek into Mike’s cheek-bone, shivering and trying to hold off fingers that slipped from his mouth. 

A terrible weakness surged through his body. He kept on holding to Mike’s neck, unable to think of anything in the daze of blissful exhaustion. A small corner of his brain told him that Mike was still holding him tightly and his hand was moving fast behind his back, but Jesse had really no kick left. All he could do was to utter hoarsely a couple of obscene words meaning delight and encouragement and repeat them in different ways until Mike froze behind him, pressing his face into his neck and breathing heavily.

Almost one minute later Mike reached out his hand over Jesse’s shoulder and Jesse realized that the rag that they used to wipe parts of the gun was good no more. Mike cleaned himself up and took care of Jesse; then he buttoned up Jesse’s jeans and straightened his T-shirt.

The raw light of the lamp was almost blinding when Mike removed the blindfold. 

Jesse closed his eyes again. He could not find the strength to open them and was listening Mike standing up, taking a gun from the table, shutting his vault, all silent just like it was the first time he took Jesse into desert with him and returned him home, safe and sound. Jesse was not surprised when the voice from the past asked him,

“Are you coming?”

The old iron elevator rattled and creaked so unhappily as though they woke it up breaking a dream in which it was a Decepticon. It was dark outside. Jesse followed Mike. He went past his Toyota and came up to Mike’s car. Mike didn’t say anything, he only glanced at him and told him to get his seat belt when they were in the car. It was a long drive. Jesse felt Mike’s glance sometimes but didn’t respond. It seemed like he was meditating over something very important. But his mind was blank. It was the first time in weeks when he felt so good and calm and he was praying the highway never to end. 

When Mike stopped near Jesse’s house, the kid didn’t move. He was looking stubbornly in front of him. Mike waited a bit and then started the engine. They drove out on the road again.

“It’s all right, kid,” Mike said, turning the steering wheel and watching the car’s lights in a side window. 

“I know,” Jesse nodded, and said, “A car wants to cut you off from the left.” 

He looked at Mike sideways and was just in time. Mike was squinting, the corner of his mouth was up.

It was all right. Everything was fine.


End file.
